It's a wonderful thesis

I was looking forward to writing today's column. It was all planned out. In fact, I was probably going to pen some thoughts regarding the War on Terrorism, or perhaps the recurring troubles in Iraq. That was before I received an email from my thesis advisor with a simple subject line: "????"

My grandiose plans for astute reflection on contemporary world affairs were dashed. At the beginning of your Princeton career, you are told about that magnificent thesis that you must write in your final year; a work that will serve as the culmination of your existence, that will define your manhood (or if you prefer, womanhood). Perhaps some of us believed it. I certainly did.

You see, we are somehow led to think that the 100 pages we write our senior year will define our lives, somewhat like our first wives. It is certainly true that the thesis and I have had our ups and downs, and surely I will never forget the memories. Yet, for all it's cracked up to be, what does it really mean? And, furthermore, who really cares? Our sweat and tears will go into that forest of pages. Some will write their words with their own blood. Others will order chapters online. At the end of the day, will it all be worth it?

Firstly, what is with all those people who keep asking, "How's your thesis going?" What are they thinking? I feel anyone who poses that question secretly dislikes you, trying to add to your already growing physical and mental anguish. I have a prepared response to that question, remarking, "Great, how's your face?" and then proceeding to feed the inquisitive classmate a healthy knuckle-sandwich.

Nevertheless after we toil those long hours, while fending off the fresh-faced underclassmen, who will read the dribble we pen? Of course our thesis advisor will take a peek. Then there will be our parents who will look at the cover, scan for any pictures, ensure that the work is dedicated in their honor, and then remark at how wonderfully it looks. After that, it will be relegated to the annals of Mudd Library, only to be revived by future seniors, seeking to borrow "inspiration."

But, perhaps I am being a little too cynical. If what I write is true, why have large swaths of the senior class spent several months — or hours in the case of a few — hibernating with nothing but a family of books, a heart-stopping pack of Red Bulls, and hopefully a change of underwear? Most likely, only a handful of people will end up perusing through my triple-spaced paragraphs of wisdom. Perhaps, my grade will reach the nether-regions of the alphabet. However, as the Nissan commercials reveal to us, it may just be the journey that really counts.

Immediately as we enter the Fitz-Randolph Gate our freshmen year, we are taken to cloud 10, as that special one tenth of qualified students who are granted special passes to the artificial playground that we call Princeton. Pampered with opportunities, hailed by our relatives, and boosted by the "important" campus organizations we play in, we are raised above anonymity into an atmosphere of self-created greatness.

And then, two years in, we go off and join eating elubs. Have you ever tried explaining eating clubs to your friends? Exactly. Perhaps being a major in the Wilson School acutely refines this feeling. We are the people who are told to solve complex world issues in three months, often having no background in the relevant field. Then we travel as a group to lecture experts, who have spent their lives devoted to the subject, on what they actually should be doing. At least that doesn't sound presumptuous on our part.

The thesis — or rather the process of writing it — is that journey of necessary humiliation, which once again highlights our real but human frailties. Through the suffering, the hard work, and the exasperation, we reach some sort of catharsis, putting our Princeton careers in perspective before we wander into the world out there. We follow in the footsteps of scholars before us, tackling difficult problems and issues, and realize that answers are not easy to come by. We recognize the limits of our abilities, and we discover the necessary humility that we all must embrace. Perhaps my thesis will only gather dust after it's written, but I know I am better because of it — probably. Taufiq Rahim is a Wilson School major from Vancouver, B.C. Email him at trahim@princeton.edu.